


Effect

by tastewithouttalent



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drinking Games, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-29 17:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17812193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Legolas is more affected than he wants to let on." Legolas wins a game and takes a moment of appreciation as the spoils of his victory.





	Effect

Legolas is more affected than he wants to let on.

It’s something of an undertaking just to remain upright. His decision to stay standing instead of dropping to the heavy wooden bench alongside his drinking opponent was a calculated one; on his feet he can gaze into the distance to find a fixed point to steady himself against rather than tipping in over the dark pattern of the table that looks increasingly comfortable the more mugs of ale he swallows back. There’s of course some measure of intimidation as well: Gimli has never cared much about Legolas’s advantage in height, judging from the growling protest he is ready to offer, as if his lower position is only that of an axe the better able to take advantage of a tree’s more delicate position. But when it comes to appearing sober remaining on one’s feet is a vital step, and so Legolas has stayed upright, even as his thoughts blur and his vaunted vision glows bright with the illumination of the lights filling the room, and he clings to his composure with every ounce of determination that centuries of existence have granted him.

It’s hard to tell who holds the upper hand. Legolas intends to remain on his feet until he falls over outright, even if the whole of the feasting hall seems to be swaying around him like the branches of that tree in the wanderings of his imagination, but Gimli has planted himself on the bench and continues to down mug after mug of ale, almost without stopping for breath between pints. His beard is foamy with what has spilled around the edges of his too-hasty swallows, and he punctuates each mug with a belch as if clearing his stomach to make space for more, but he looks as solid as a mountain, as if it will take an earthquake to so much as rattle him. A dozen mugs are hardly enough to scatter a few pebbles from that absolute certainty, Legolas thinks, somewhere between distant alarm and admiration that is less grudging, in the moment, than it would be otherwise; and then Gimli slurs something made incoherent between the uncertainty of his tongue and the haze of Legolas’s hearing, and he topples over backwards to land heavily enough at the floor that Legolas can feel the impact run all the way up the whole of his deliberately braced legs.

Legolas gazes at the other for a moment, staring in silence while he works through the shape of the situation in his head with careful intent. It’s difficult to hold onto his thoughts; not only his fingertips but the whole of his body is prickling, his skin shimmering as if with some kind of fever-heat as he thinks of it. Gimli lies still at the floor of the hall, flat on his back and with one leg still up over the bench on which he was sitting; the mug he was drinking from is clutched tight in his hand, but the remains of it are spilling out to a puddle at the floor. It’s that, more than anything, that reminds Legolas what he was doing in the first place, at least enough to bring his focus back up and off to that distant point on the other side of the hall that he has been using to keep himself up for so long.

“Game over,” he says, clear and careful over the words as if he’s forming them for the audience of a throne room instead of tossing them to be lost in the hubbub of the celebration all around them. He looks down at his own mug, more than a little surprised to find it still in his hand; there’s still a half-inch of ale at the bottom of it, he can see from the sheen of the light catching off the surface. That’s not allowed, he recalls vaguely, he needs to finish the whole of the drink served to him; so he brings the mug to his lips, careful to press his mouth flush to the edge before he tips it up to swallow the liquid within. The flavor is heavy on his tongue, an addition to the bitter heat that has long since swamped his awareness of anything more subtle than the tang of alcohol at the back of his mouth and the wheaty smell that saturates even the empty mugs; Legolas swallows with deliberate intent before he reaches out to carefully set his mug at the edge of the table alongside the array of others he has already emptied. He thinks to count them, wondering in a distant, foggy way how many pints it took to overcome Gimli’s certain resolve; but his vision blurs, mugs overlap each other even as he tries to count them, and the numbers slip away from his thoughts as he reaches as if he’s learning them new all over again. Legolas blinks at the table, considering his options with distant care; and then he turns, bracing his fingertips against the edge of the surface to keep from running into it as he steps around the heavy furniture to where Gimli has collapsed on the floor.

The dwarf shows no signs of stirring. He’s flat on his back, his ale-damp beard tangled over his chest and an arm flung out wide without any consideration for the danger this puts his fingers in from the heavy boots and cheering crowd surrounding them. He’s not actually showing consideration for anything; his eyes are shut, weighted down by the alcohol that has flowed so liberally, and from the sound of his snoring Legolas thinks he won’t be stirring before the rise of the sun tomorrow morning, and perhaps not until it has passed its peak into the afternoon. He’s as entirely disheveled as a day of travel and a night of drinking can make a dwarf, which is not an inconsiderable feat; and Legolas stands over him, uncertain master of his precarious balance, and he feels the warmth under his skin tighten as if closing to a fist around the beat of his heart in his chest.

Legolas doesn’t know how long he stands there, watching Gimli snoring through his intoxication, feeling every breath ache in him as if he must count them as closely as the other races do, as if he is measuring the span of his life in the matter of decades it must be to Men instead of the centuries of immortality his own kind is promised. No one says anything to him, or if they do he does not hear them; his attention is fixed, his focus so intent the rest of the world must necessarily haze out of importance in comparison. Finally he lifts his fingers from the corner of the table around which he so carefully navigated, and reaches to press them to the support of the bench instead; his touch is delicate, as careful as if more incidental than necessary, but he presses hard at the wood to hold himself steady as he lowers himself to first one and then both knees against the floor. It’s a little easier to keep himself upright once he’s kneeling, a little less alarming to consider the floor at an endless distance from him; he can lift his hand from the bench, at least, and even when he leans forward to curl his fingers into Gimli’s shirtfront he only needs to touch against the floor to steady himself against the force of the other’s weight as he draws Gimli back and towards him.

Gimli doesn’t stir at the motion, even when his booted foot drops heavily from the bench to land at the dark of the floor, which means he’s still snoring unconsciousness as Legolas draws him aside from the heedless dangers of the crowd around them and towards the greater security offered by the space between one of the tall pillars supporting the roof of the hall and the solid weight of the table still littered with the remains of their game. Gimli is unresistant to Legolas’s attempts to move him, even if the solid weight of his body seems to have grown denser with his unconsciousness, but his balance is no better sleeping than it was in waking, and every attempt Legolas makes to brace him against the support of the pillar results in the other sliding down to lie snoring at the floor once more. Finally Legolas gets Gimli pulled in against the support of his shoulder, with the ale-damp of his beard pressing into the soft smooth of Legolas’s shirtfront, and he pauses there, his thoughts too hazy and his blood too glowing-warm to allow space to consider any further action beyond his initial goal.

The hall is full of people, Men for the most part, with themselves standing as representative for their respective races; or sitting, rather, Legolas corrects with dreamy attention to accuracy. There is no indication of the celebration diminishing, no lull in the stamp of dancing feet or the cheers of enthusiasm or the roars of laughter; but with the solid support of the pillar at his back and the heavy rumble of Gimli’s snoring against his chest, Legolas finds the din filling the hall retreating to something almost peaceful, like the sound of a distant storm rustling through the thick branches of a forest or the spill of a waterfall tumbling itself over a cliff and into a wide-spreading river to wind through lands careless of border or dominion. Legolas gazes out at the rhythm of the movement around him, feeling it rush over him as if he’s a stone in that same river, as if his thoughts are a leaf fluttering in the gust of that imagined storm; and then he draws a breath in time with Gimli’s, and he shuts his eyes, and he lets the sound of the other’s husky snores lull him into peace.

The game is won, but Legolas finds more comfort in this unobserved surrender than in what bleary victory he may claim.


End file.
